


Embarrassment and misery of Effortless kissing

by Fururin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ALL OF IT, Aziraphale loves kissing, Confused but defiant Crowley, Crowley loves Aziraphale and puts himself through torture of kissing, Embarrassment and misery, Fluff, Happy Aziraphale, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, You're My Best Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 07:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fururin/pseuds/Fururin
Summary: Crowley kisses Aziraphale because Aziraphale likes kissing.Crowley hates kissing. It's wet. It tastes weird. It sounds ridiculous. It smells of saliva. And what's worse, it does not end with one kiss.***So here's a question: what does kissing feel like when you don't make the Effort? I like to think it is the weirdest, longing embarrassment.





	Embarrassment and misery of Effortless kissing

Crowley kisses Aziraphale because Aziraphale likes kissing.

When they kiss, Aziraphale parts his lips and tilts his head, always to one side. He likes to raise both hands to place them on Crowley's neck. If Aziraphale feels adventurous, he slides one palm down to Crowley's chest and rests it there. From his knees to his belly, to his arms, to his fingers, to his lips, Aziraphale feels warm.

Crowley hates kissing. It's wet. It tastes weird. It sounds ridiculous. It smells of saliva. And what's worse, it does not end with one kiss.

Crowley could deal with one. If his best friend wants a kiss, A. J. Crowley can kiss him, no problem. But Aziraphale always smiles after the first one, lets out a mellow sigh, and leans in for another. Crowley hates how nauseous he feels at that moment. His head is in a sickly reel. The insides of his stomach contract. His heart pounds. His breath becomes a mess. He is off-balance and wants to steady himself by holding Aziraphale's shoulders just lightly. Four seconds later he clasps Aziraphale's neck, or his wrists, or his waist. His fingers refuse to uncurl.

The absolute worst of kissing, though, comes when it suddenly deepens. Aziraphale opens his mouth a little wider. Using his out-of-body sight, Crowley always steals a look at his face at that very second and is disgusted by its serenity and apparent joy. Crowley banishes the vision and dedicates a heartbeat to thoroughly resent feeling how he feels. He will not be reduced to gasps. He will not be stripped of his cool by as little as a careful touch of Aziraphale's tongue to his. After that, there is usually a gap in his demonic memory Crowley is quite certain he does not ever wish to fill.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Crowley becomes aware of the world again and braces himself for when the kiss ends. He half-expects Aziraphale's soft chuckle. 'I believe you are shaking, my dear.' But Aziraphale never says that. He just continues with the cursed kissing. Crowley's hands slide down his coat to settle at about the height of Aziraphale's hips. On and on it goes.

Sometimes Crowley feels an overwhelming need to press his forehead to Aziraphale's in between the kisses. His skin tickles and tingles all over. Crowley knows that touching Aziraphale's forehead will make it worse, and it does. The wave of shivers it sends down his spine is near impossible to hide. Aziraphale's nose dabbing the tip of his makes Crowley acutely aware of how daft their postures are. His toes curl at that touch, too. Thankfully, nobody sees it.

There comes a point where Aziraphale gives them both a break. He withdraws just a little and exhales deeply. His eyes are closed. A delicate, savoring smile rests on his lips. Crowley stares at those lips, wondering if _he_ made them this red with kissing. He feels a touch of sly pride at the thought.

Then, inexorably, Aziraphale leans in for what Crowley in his mind has come to call the Final One. Crowley always tries to duck it. He has exposed himself to enough embarrassment by now. He may be even blushing. So, Crowley moves back with his chest and head. He does not look at Aziraphale. He begins to turn his face away. Aziraphale catches the move with a gentle touch of his hand and, with four fingers on Crowley's cheek and a thumb just below his lips, turns Crowley's face slowly back.

Crowley feels trapped. He still manages not to look at Aziraphale, whose thumb will touch his lips in just a second. Crowley panics, then draws a sharp breath. With it, a change of heart kicks in. He will not be cowed. If all there is is this misery, better to face it like any rebel worth his name would. Crowley's shoulders twitch, and he jerks his chin up. His mouth is wry. He stares Aziraphale in the eyes with wretched, unwavering defiance.

Aziraphale smiles at him tenderly. His eyes are gleaming, his cheeks definitely rosy. The happy angelic bastard. The so-called friend.

Aziraphale makes a little rubbing move with his other hand, which has crept to the back of Crowley's neck. This is when the trap closes. So be it. Crowley cannot help but close his eyes. He stoops to open trembling. He might sigh out loud. Crowley decides he will rather sleep on nails for the rest of his life than do any of this again. Kisses be damned.

Aziraphale makes this one excruciatingly wet. Crowley moans and squirms, as he opens his mouth. Aziraphale holds him. Crowley's eyes are shut so tight he can feel his own eyelashes. He is falling. (Not Falling; that one was political and, frankly, quite abstract, except for the bit about the boiling sulphur). _This_ is giddy and intently personal. Crowley tries to compare it to racing through space among nebulae, but in all honesty, nothing is really like holding Aziraphale. Nothing is like tasting his lips, sweet and a tiny bit gritty, as if covered in fine sugar powder; nothing like cupping the curls of his fluffy, cotton-blossom hair.

When the kiss ends, Aziraphale lingers with his eyes closed, and Crowley has a moment to feel confused, and exhausted, and light-headed, and... nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1  
I am aware that Aziraphale and Crowley are <s>6000 years old</s> eleven, but I've upgraded them to teenagers for the purposes of this fanfic.
> 
> Note 2  
The same from Aziraphale's POV:  
AZIRAPHALE: *Happy*.


End file.
